A RED SUN RISES

Author's Notes:

And just like that, this is the last chapter of RED SUN. From here on, what happens will be covered in UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISMENT OF ÉOMER - The Rewrite, which I am going to post in a little while. It is a take of my original story that shines a bit more light on the so-called "minor characters", as I had grown quite fond of them when I wrote this prequel...  Have a nice weekend!

Chapter 24: Setting the Board

The storm reached its climax shortly after noon. It blew the snowflakes through the city's alley and up the hill, and great drifts began to pile up against doors and in corners from where the tiny crystals could not escape. Life in Edoras had come to a halt, and so it was with some mystification when a loud knock at the door reached Éothain's ears. Exchanging a bewildered – and worried – glance with his father who stuck his head out of the kitchen to check, the son of Céorl walked over and opened.

Together with a whirl of snowflakes, the wind blew Gunthard, one of the royal errand runners, into the hallway. The young man looked thoroughly frozen as he removed his hood with a shower of snow.

"Greetings, Éothain." He shook his head. "This is really no weather to leave the comfort of one's fireplace." He cracked a sour grin.

"No, it isn't," Éothain agreed, warily. "So what are you doing here, Gunthard?" He saw something in the man's hand, an envelope with the royal seal. The summons they had been waiting for?

"I was asked to deliver this to your father," Gunthard answered, and looked at Céorl, who was slowly approaching through the corridor to investigate on the disturbance. He held out the envelope. "Sir, I have a message from Meduseld for you."

With a dark glance, the older warrior accepted it.

"Do you need an answer to this right away?" he asked, the grey eyes never leaving the errand runner's face. The younger man nodded.

"Aye, Captain. I was bidden to return with your answer."

With an inviting gesture, Céorl turned to the side.

"Then come in, Gunthard. Sit down in front of the fire while I read this. Would you like something to drink? Something hot?"

"Only if you have something ready. Please, don't trouble yourself on my account."

"I just made tea." Lady Glenwyn, Céorl's wife, looked out of the kitchen. "It is no trouble at all. I will bring you a cup."

"Thank you, my Lady." The messenger's face lit up in expectation. He followed his hosts into the living room, where Céorl pointed at a massive armchair before the fireplace.

"You can sit here while we read this. You wouldn't know what it is about?"

Gunthard shook his head.

"I don't. I am only the legs, I'm afraid."

"Huh." Sitting down on the bench by the long table, Céorl motioned for his son to join him. "Come, Éothain."

He broke the seal and withdrew the piece of parchment it held. The message was rather short…. and caused both men to lift their eyebrows in puzzlement. For a moment, father and son stared at each other in consternation… then their glances strayed over to the errand runner, who suddenly found himself in the focus of two rather irritated warriors. Céorl lifted the hand with the parchment.

"This says that Snowbourn found the tracks of a rather great horde of orcs almost upon their doorstep yesterday, and that they ask for immediate help." He inhaled… and furrowed his brow. "I'm wondering whether they truly sent out an éored for patrol in this weather, and how on earth they managed to find anything at all in this blizzard."

Gunthard had just thankfully accepted the cup from the captain's wife and wrapped his icy fingers around it. He shrugged apologetically.

"I'm afraid I cannot tell you more, Captain," he said. "I was given the sealed envelope and told to return with you reply."

"Hmm…" Céorl's eyes became narrow slits. "And now the King expects me to take my éored and investigate… in the middle of this storm?"

"I can ride, father," Éothain offered, although the prospects frightened him.

"No, son, you can't." Céorl shook his head. "This is my order. You were told to remain in the city until further notice, remember? I don't think the Worm wants you out there, beyond his means of control. Also, you have really just returned from the north. Your men and your horses need to rest."

"But this speaks of a great horde," Éothain pointed out, his finger on the matching paragraph. "Perhaps, you should take at least a few of my men with you. The ones who returned with me already had a bit of rest." The expression on his face changed suddenly. "Béma…"

"What?" Céorl looked up with worry. "What is it, Éothain?"

"There is something… Will you come with me, Father? Just for a moment." An apologetic glance found the messenger. "We will be right back, Gunthard. Please, make yourself at home."

Éothain all but stormed out of the living room and made for the kitchen with great strides, his father right behind him, a bewildered expression upon his face. His mother turned around in alarm when they reached the room.

"Éothain? Léofa, what is it?"

Éothain lifted a hand to indicate that their business did not concern her, and his voice dropped to a conspiratory whisper.

"Father, if they send you away now… you might not be here when the verdict is spoken!"

Céorl's eyes widened in sudden understanding.

"Morgoth's balls, you're right! This whole business-" he lifted his hand with the parchment, "—might just be the Worm's way of ensuring that we do not cross his plans with the marshal! He gets us out of the way to do… what?"

Éothain shook his head.

"I don't know. But what if there is no trial? What if Éomer's fate has already been decided and the sentence will be carried out once you are away? With only one éored – or even less men – a fight with the Royal Guard and Gríma's men would be an unsure thing."

There was doubt in his father's stare now.

"Sentence Éomer without a trial? Béma! I cannot see this happening, Éothain. The Council would insist upon it… at least I hope so. It is not a nameless rider who is in the focus of their attention; it is the King's nephew! The Third Marshal of the Mark! Surely Gríma cannot simply dispose of him just as he likes!"

Éothain inhaled.

"I would like to believe that, too… but can we be sure? No."

For the longest time, father and son stared at each other, close to desperation, then Glenwyn asked from behind: "Who is sending you away, léofa… and where to?"

"Snowbourn asks for help regarding orc tracks they found in their vicinity." Céorl turned his head and saw his wife blanch.

"In this storm?"

"Aye. In this storm."

Éothain looked thoughtful.

"You cannot refuse, Father… can you?"

Slowly, Céorl shook his head, stroking his beard.

"I do not think so. If I do and the summons turns out to be genuine… I will be the next one who finds himself in the dungeon." He exhaled forcefully. "Curse that filth! It is about time someone does something drastic to him! What a pity that Éomer could not kill him!"

For a moment, the three occupants of the kitchen regarded each other gloomily. It was Glenwyn who broke the silence.

"So you will ride out today?"

Céorl inhaled.

"Aye. I do not see any other way… although I am certainly not looking forward to it. Will you help me alarm the éored, Éothain?"

"Of course." Éothain nodded. "And my offer still stands, if you want take a few of my men with you, as well."

"No. Keep them here. I will take a gamble and say that this is only a means to get me out of the way for whatever the Worm's plans are. No one could find any tracks in a storm like this, and I doubt that even orcs would dare to cross the plains in a whiteout. You might also need those men for the protection of the city, or next, Gríma accuses you of neglecting your duties. We cannot risk that."

Céorl beheld the dread on his wife's mien, and with a heavy sigh, wrapped her into his arms.

"I promise to be careful, léofa," he whispered, and planted a kiss upon her brow. "I have often ridden in such weather. It is unpleasant, but nothing more… and I doubt that anything besides us will be moving outside. Beasts will stay in their dens, and orcs wherever they find shelter. We cannot even get lost, for we will only have to follow the river."

He released her from his hold and turned back to his son.

"Come, let's give Gunthard our answer."

OOO

Two hours later, Céorl's éored had assembled on the marketplace right behind the gates. None of the men looked forward to heading out, even more, as the sense of it was highly questionable. Their captain had even inquired again at the Golden Hall and had been admitted inside to share his concerns, but – just as he had suspected – his actions had done nothing to change the outcome. Very obviously, Gríma Wormtongue wanted him out of his way. So it was with a heavy heart that the valiant captain of the Edoras-based éored had called his riders together.

The snow crunched beneath his boots as Céorl stepped outside the stables, Steorra's reins in his hands. The big, experienced grey flickered his ears at the swirling flakes before him and gave an indignant snort, just before he rammed all four hooves into the ground. His owner sighed.

"Aye, I know, my friend. It is ridiculous. But we must head out nonetheless. Come." He pulled on the reins, and with a deep, disgruntled huff, his stallion followed him.

"Provided you do not find anything, how quickly do you think can you return, Father?" Éothain's eyes were narrow slits as he stared at the heavily overcast sky. It seemed that there was still a lot of snow to be dumped upon them before this storm was over.

"Oh, I am absolutely certain that we will not find anything. Even if there had been something, the storm will have blown away whatever tracks there were. So I think that we will – hopefully – make it to Snowbourn until nightfall, stay there over night and see whether their call for aid was genuine… and if it was, perhaps have a fleeting look around tomorrow morning and head back before noon. Provided nothing unexpected happens, we should return to Edoras tomorrow before darkness."

Éothain nodded, and he could not help casting a dark glance in the direction of the Golden Hall.

"Let's hope so. And let's hope that the Worm will not go on a rampage as soon as you are out of sight."

Having reached the great place where the rest of his éored was waiting, Céorl came to a halt. He put a heavy hand upon his son's shoulder.

"Whatever happens, Éothain, remember that the fate of the entire Mark is at stake. You cannot be too careful, even it is Éomer's life that is on the line. If you try something and fail, your neck will be the next one that finds itself in the hangman's noose… and the Mark will lose another one of its protectors. There are not too many of us left. Heed my words."

He clapped Éothain's shoulder and sat a foot into the stirrup, swinging into the saddle with long-practiced ease.

Éothain sighed and looked up. His heart was heavy.

"I will, Father. Please be careful out there. This might just be a means to remove you from Edoras, but it could just as well be an attempt to dispose of you and your men, permanently."

Céorl snorted and briefly brushed the hilt of his sword with a gauntleted hand.

"If it is, they will find us ready!"

He kicked his heels into the grey's sides and moved through the throng of riders towards the opened gate.

Éothain stood and watched until the last of them had disappeared in the swirling white. The city was under his protection now for the first time. For a moment, the sheer weight of responsibility bore down upon him, threatening to freeze him where he stood. His gaze strayed from the slowly closing gate up to the Hall of Kings, where his friend and commander sat in a cell… waiting for his death? Would the Worm's plans be revealed to them tomorrow? And if they were… what would he do?

With a sigh from the very bottom of his soul, Éothain turned around and walked back to the house of his parents. It seemed that another long, sleepless night lay before him…

OOO

The éored's departure had also been watched by other eyes; pale, malevolent eyes. They stayed on the snaking line of riders until the snowstorm swallowed them. Only then did Gríma son of Galmod close his window, although the room temperature had greatly suffered during his lengthy observations.

With an expression of satisfaction upon his features, he shuffled over to the fireplace to feed another two logs to the flames. One problem solved. He supposed the orcs he had ordered to swarm out around Snowbourn a few days ago had not been too happy when his messenger had instructed them, but they all needed to do their part for victory now. Sacrifices needed to be made. The Gods knew he himself had made plenty over the past years.

His back still hurt as he bent down to grasp the wood from the stack, and he cursed soundlessly. It would take a while for the bruises to heal. His back was black and blue where the Third Marshal had hammered him against the pillar, and his throat was likewise still swollen and sore. Only with the help of his potions did he manage to get through the day without having the Royal Household notice how badly he truly hurt. He could not afford to appear vulnerable and weak, not when victory was almost within grasp. Pain was temporary; glory was eternal. Wasn't that something the Armed Forces said? It was certainly true here.

He cast the logs into the fire and, for a moment, watched as the flames licked at the new food, before they jumped at it hungrily. He was almost done with his preparations now, which meant that perhaps, he would be able to enjoy a restful night for a change. Felrod and his men had been instructed, and their horses would be brought to the hideout outside the city wall after nightfall. All had been arranged. No one would see them leave. Once their prey had been cast out weaponless and vulnerable tomorrow, finishing Éomer son of Éomund off ought to be little more than child's play for six strong and heavily armed Dunlending warriors. At least he hoped so. Yet if for some reason, this plan went wrong, he had other possibilities at hand; all involved waiting eagerly for his command. No, in one way or another, the Third Marshal would die. The only thing that was regrettable about this new approach was that he would not be there to see it.

Now, all that was left for him to do was ensure that Théoden-King did indeed utter the sentence they had agreed upon. His niece had been busy like a bee these past days, and while Éowyn probably thought that it had escaped his attention, Gríma had been well aware of her increased activity. She had had lengthy conversations with both captains of the Royal Guard, and probably even prompted Háma to request a visitation of the prisoner. Gamling had been seen to enter her chambers, too. And then, today, rather to his suspicion, Gríma had been informed that Théoden-King himself had visited his niece for the morning meal. He had appeared thoroughly shaken when he had left her chambers, and there was no question what his discussion with Éomund's daughter must have been about.

This was an alarming development, especially since the King had seemed rather hale these past two days. Gríma had not been too happy with the quality of the last batch of the weed he had received from Saruman; it had been old and dry, and apparently, not too potent. Far-sighted as he was, he had managed to organise another, much better delivery through his own channels at the very same day, which had arrived only a short while later. The clear, odourless distillate he had obtained from it had looked far more promising than the slightly murky liquid the wizard's batch had produced, and the waiting time for it to reach its full potency was over today, too.

It was time for Théoden-King to receive another strong dose of his favourite potion. After that, a few chosen words whispered into the sleeping King's ears would do all he could ask for. Involuntarily, Gríma's hand crept into his pocket and closed around the small phial as he approached the door. He looked forward to this last task of the day, the words he meant to mutter into Théoden's ear already in his mind. Victory was close…